Steppe
There, sir. You’re trapped
on my leeward side
in rain shadow, yet,
won’t ask for water, help
or touch. The cactus cage
pricks palms into voodoo dolls.
The humidity suffocates
like a young, naïve wife.
Come now, bandage up.
The injuries to your hands
fester, a microcosm of us,
a tiny volcano of pus.
The winter moth orbits the light
and her axis is not slowed
by flaps of wings. though her
movements erratic, the effect
is to eradicate the night,
to prevent confusion, cold.
for this, she has flung
all hope into the static
pulse of wings. she’s a kite
controlled by gusts, not to fold
or bend despite the sling
shot maneuvering her frantic
flight plan has mapped. she fights,
it seems, to snap the bow
and arrow, to burn her wings
on the sun, to reach manic.
CAT DIXON teaches creative writing at the University of Nebraska, Omaha. She is the secretary of The Backwaters Press. Her work has appeared in Sugar House Review, Midwest Quarterly Review, Coe Review, and Eclectica,among others. She has poems forthcoming in The Untidy Season Anthology.
The Blue Bear Review 